


Noël

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander: Endgame, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Christmas, First Time, Holiday, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Romance, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05-06, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-01
Updated: 2002-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Christmas vignettes that follow the years between Duncan and Methos' first meeting and Endgame, with thanks to Carol S for the initial spark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1995

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine my shock at realizing that I actually wrote something! I started this little series last year before Christmas, after a conversation with Carol S sparked thoughts in this direction. I didn't get very far, but for some reason, I didn't throw it out, either, though I didn't honestly think I'd ever finish it. Wonders never cease, I suppose.
> 
> Hugs and thanks to Melina for helpful timelines, to the ROG-L for the Methos consultation and to elyn, MacG, and Carmel for encouragement. Extra hugs and thanks to Lys for the beta, when she has many things on her plate -- it was truly an act of friendship.
> 
> These were intended to be read in order, but I think they're kind of fun as stand-alones, too. Your choice.

_December 24, 1995_

By mid-afternoon most days, Joe's would just be starting to pick up, blue-collar guys cutting off a little early, a few businessmen killing time after a cross-country flight with nowhere to be until the next day. On Christmas Eve it was practically a ghost town, at least until ten or so. Dawson was taking advantage of the quiet to work on inventory, printouts spread out in front of him, when the door opened and pale winter sunlight outlined a familiar silhouette.

"Mac! Long time no see." Dawson's practiced eye read the man he'd made a study of for twenty years, and saw that Duncan MacLeod was relaxed and in good spirits today, probably thanks to all the time he'd been spending working on Anne Lindsey's house, getting it ready for mom and the new arrival. Not much made him happier than giving generously of himself to those he cared about, and having his gifts accepted. "How's life treating you?"

"Good, Joe. I'm good." MacLeod glanced at the papers spread on the bar. "Making your list and checking it twice?"

"Yep. Got you down for a lump of coal, as a matter of fact."

MacLeod's brows arched. "Well, if I've been naughty, I guess you would know."

He really was in a good mood if he was willing to joke about Dawson's avocation. Joe couldn't help returning the grin. "And don't you forget it."

"Like you'd let me."

Joe chuckled. "What brings you to my neck of the woods? Can I get you a beer or something?"

MacLeod leaned on the bar, his expression turning serious. "No, but there is something you can do for me."

"I will if I can, you know that."

"Come over to my place tonight. Rich and I want you to spend Christmas Eve with us."

Taken aback, Joe felt his face warm. He shuffled the papers spread out on the bar. "I appreciate it, Mac, but I gotta stay here and finish up this inventory--"

"No buts," MacLeod insisted. "You told me yourself it's hardly worth it to you to stay open on Christmas Eve. So, close up for a few hours, and meet us at my place. Seven o'clock."

Joe spread his hands, and looked for a way to get out of this gracefully. "Look, Mac -- I really do appreciate it. It's just that I don't usually do that whole holiday thing, you know?"

As soon as the words were out, Joe realized that he didn't have to tell this man anything about being alone for the holidays. He immediately felt like a heel for thinking he did, but Mac just nodded understanding. "To tell you the truth, I was counting on you being there. Besides, Rich says he'll kick my ass if I take no for an answer."

"Well, I don't know, that might be worth seeing." But he'd made up his mind, and MacLeod's smile said he knew it. The man was insufferable. "Okay," Joe relented, "seven it is. Should I bring anything?"

"Just your sparkling personality." MacLeod slapped the bar lightly and pushed himself away. "Thanks, Joe."

"Sure I can't pour you a beer? I could use the distraction."

"Can't. Got another stop to make." MacLeod's grin escaped again, and Dawson knew the source of his Christmas cheer had to be Anne Lindsey's new baby. He'd never seen the man lavish affection on anyone the way he had on that child. MacLeod had tried to keep his distance, tried to contain his obvious adoration so as not to spook Anne, but it was painfully obvious to anyone who knew him. Dawson just hoped MacLeod had the sense to back off before Anne had to push the issue.

"How many presents you going to buy for that kid, anyway? She's barely a month old, you know. It's not like she's gonna know what the fuss is all about."

Wounded, MacLeod protested, "It's her first Christmas, Joe! First Christmases only come once. I'm allowed to spoil her a little, aren't I?"

Joe smiled, and if there was sadness behind the smile, he didn't think Mac could see it. "Sure, buddy. At least until she's old enough to drive."

MacLeod raised a hand in farewell. "Later, Joe."

When he'd gone, Dawson went back to the inventory reports. It was several minutes before he realized he'd been singing "Christmas Blues" under his breath.

* * *

Duncan whistled what he cheerfully suspected was a dreadfully off-key rendition of "Merry Christmas, Baby" as he unloaded what he suspected to be far too many celebratory supplies from the T-bird's back seat. He hadn't intended to buy quite so much for just the three of them, but it seemed to be the season of excess. Anne had certainly thought so when she'd seen the presents he'd brought for Mary. For her part, Mary was largely unimpressed with her presents, but seemed quite taken with Duncan's hair tie, which had ended up in her possession for the foreseeable future. Already a femme fatale of considerable charms, little Mary had made at least one conquest, and Duncan was more than happy to be the first in what he was sure would be a long line of admirers.

Shifting the heavy armload of foodstuffs, beer and Christmas decorations, he turned and pushed his way backwards through the door of the dojo, maneuvering himself and his supplies successfully around the door with some exertion of skill and balance. Almost immediately inside the door, however, his careful balancing act was nearly defeated by a large and somewhat treacherous pile of fir tree needles. Whistle halted mid-note, Duncan recovered from the near-slip and frowned.

As his gaze followed the trail of fir needles, punctuated by a second, smaller pile just inside the interior doors, progressing in a ragged but mostly straight line across the dojo floor and ending in another, formidable pile in front of the lift, his frown deepened. He started to cross the room and his boots made an unpleasant, sticky sound on the wood floor. Sap.

"Richie!"

As if summoned out of thin air by the force of Duncan's bellow, Richie appeared at the top of the stairs. "I'll clean it up, Mac. Don't you worry about a thing, okay? I swear, when I'm done, you'll never know a Christmas tree came through here."

The pattern and quantity of shed needles had alerted Duncan's suspicions. "Just how big is this tree, anyway?"

Richie hurried down to ground level and started to take some of the heavy paper sacks from Duncan's arms, piling them into his own. "You're gonna love it, Mac. It was the best one on the lot. Seriously, wait till you see it."

"Because I told you I wanted something tasteful, something that wouldn't take over the whole living room, remember?"

"Well, it's a big room, right? I mean, those ceilings have got to be, what? Thirty feet? Maybe forty. And you got extra lights, right? Yeah, you did, that's great. How many more strings did you get?"

"Richie." Wide, blue eyes met his. "How big?"

"Uh..." Richie looked at the paper sacks. "I think we might need some more lights."

* * *

Despite Duncan's best efforts, it was hard to stay mad at the kid. He couldn't help remembering that first Christmas after Richie had come to stay with them, how Tessa had encouraged the idea of the three of them making new traditions together, how determined Richie had been to make it the perfect family Christmas, complete with luminarias and eggnog and the most perfect Christmas tree he could find. Tessa had despised eggnog, but forced herself to drink some because Richie had made it; the tree had been a success that year but the luminarias had been a disaster, refusing to stay lit in the wet, cold fog that rolled in from the coast. The whole experience had been awkward and tense and Duncan had loved them both for trying so hard, and somehow, it had worked.

Tessa had been killed the next year, and December had come and gone unnoticed, both of them still numb with grief, unable to face the thought of trying to pretend the two of them were still a family, with Tessa gone. The year after that, Richie had made himself scarce, and Duncan hadn't pushed it. Anne had broken with him not long before that, and he hadn't felt much like celebrating himself.

This year he'd been smarter. He'd asked, and Richie had stayed, and so it was tough to stay mad about the tree, or any of the kid's usual antics. To his credit Richie had managed to get the lights on without sending the monstrous fir crashing through the front windows, and they winked festively now among the branches. A glance at the clock over the stove told him it was time to put the dessert in; Joe would be there in half an hour.

Duncan put three ramikins into the oven, the egg, sugar and vanilla beginning almost immediately to release their sweet aroma. Dinner under control, he wiped his hands and came around the kitchen island, grabbing his beer and joining Richie where he stood gazing up at the tree.

"I think we'll just skip the ornaments, what do you think?"

"Yeah," Richie agreed. "It looks nice like that."

"That, and I don't think they have enough ornaments in the Pacific Northwest to cover that tree."

Richie grinned. "You could be right about that." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, I almost forgot! You got a postcard today, from Florence."

"Really? Who from?"

"I don't know. I put it on the hall table with the other cards."

Duncan fanned the small stack of cards, most of them from the university faculty or from business associates, the small postcard appearing between them. On the front was a photograph of Cellini's bronze statue of Perseus from the Loggia dei Lanzi, the classical hero wielding a curved sword and proffering the head of Medusa as proof of his bravery. It took him a second, but then Duncan started to grin. "It's from Adam," he said, and turned the card over.

It wasn't signed, but the handwriting was extraordinarily graceful, speaking of skill learned in another century. Though he'd seen that flowing script only once before, in the margins of his copy of Sartre's _Being and Nothingness,_ he'd have known it anywhere.

_Christmas in Florence,_ it said at the top. Then, in Italian:

> _I wanted to take her to Bethlehem, but twenty-eight years of occupation are not easily put aside, I'm afraid. Even hoping for the best, tensions are bound to be running high, and besides, I'm a romantic at heart. How can you go wrong with Florence?_
> 
> _Did you know that Cosimo tried to put Cellini off finishing his Perseus? He was absolutely convinced it would never stand with that great head dangling off the end of its fist, and refused to cough up another quattrino. Benvenuto ended up throwing his pots and pans and (so I heard) half his furniture into the furnace to finish the thing. Alexa and I agree it was well worth a bit of redecorating. He's quite magnificent, all told. Can't quite say why he reminded me of you, though -- maybe the wings._

  
Duncan imagined the smirk that had accompanied the writing of those words, and couldn't help laughing.

>   
> _P.S. Give Joe our love, and give that kid of yours a good whack with a stick about the head and shoulders for me, will you?_

  
"What's so funny?"

Duncan tucked the postcard back into the pile. Richie and Methos weren't on the best of terms at the moment, given that 'Adam' had been the one to separate Kristin's head from her shoulders. Fatal attraction or not, that hadn't sat well with Richie. "Wouldn't translate," he said, and changed the subject. "You mind setting the table? Joe should be here any minute."

It was good to hear from Methos. He'd missed that irritating, intriguing presence in his life more than he'd realized, and it made him feel better to know that things were still all right, that Methos was finding some happiness, for a little while, at least. For a little while was the best their kind could hope for.

_Look after yourself, my friend._ He lifted his beer in a silent toast and cast the wish out into the world.


	2. 1996

_December 25, 1996_

Hunched into his coat, hands buried deep in his pockets, Duncan hurried the last quarter mile or so towards home. A bitter wind blew off the river and slipped past the edges of even the thickest wool, penetrating to the bone. Otherwise, the city was silent, still, winking strings of colored lights the only observers to his passing.

He was exhausted, his face stinging with the cold, but for the first time in weeks, at least he felt something other than numb. Pitching in at the mission the last few days had been a good idea, though he knew people would die tonight despite their best efforts -- and if not tonight, then tomorrow, or the next. It was one thing to give a homeless man a coat or a warm supper, but another to give him hope, a reason to seek shelter from the murderous cold. The best they could do was buy time for some, given them another night, another week, to find that reason. Still, even that small difference felt like something good, something to hold on to.

As he turned the last corner onto the street above the quay, he felt the prickling at the back of his neck again, as though someone were watching him, following just beyond the edge of perception. He'd been sensing it all day at odd moments, never strong enough for certainty, just a feeling. He slowed, slipping a hand under his coat to rest on the katana's hilt, and scanned the quay for any sign of motion.

Again he saw no one, and after a moment, the feeling abated. "Stop playing hard to get and get on with it, why don't you?" he muttered under his breath. But no one answered him save the wind, and the lapping of the river against its banks.

On Christmas no less, he thought disgustedly. He'd been on his feet for more than eighteen hours, outside in the cold for a good part of that. He was tired and in no mood to play games, wanting only to get home, get a fire going in the stove and get horizontal under warm blankets for a good long while. Running out of patience for his cagey companion, he lengthened his stride again.

A call to Dawson might be in order, though he didn't relish the prospect. Joe was still in Seacouver, and he'd been vague about his plans for the holiday -- which meant, Duncan knew, that he was spending the day with his sister's family. Horton's family. It was a touchy subject between them and always would be, though Duncan knew Horton's wife and daughter had been victims, too. He couldn't help the resentment he felt, and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual; calling there on Christmas wasn't at the top of his list of fun things to do, to say the least. Instinct was telling him that his persistent shadow was no Watcher, but the way things had gone this year, he wanted to be sure.

Another name had come to mind more than once that day, as he'd wondered who might be following him. He'd tried to put it out of his thoughts, reminding himself that if there'd been anything left to say they would have said it that last morning in Bordeaux, and the sooner he accepted that, the better off he'd be. For all he knew, Methos was halfway across the world by now.

For all he knew -- that was a laugh. Not a whole hell of a lot, as it turned out.

Not the first time he'd gone down this road of thought, either, but the familiarity was bitter comfort of a sort. The hurt was still fresh and deep enough that it was easier to be cynical about it and call himself a fool than it was to remember the good times, to let himself admit that he'd let the wily old bastard get much deeper under the skin than he'd ever guessed. That road led to places he wasn't ready to go, especially not in the small, cold hours of the morning, and he pushed the bleak thoughts aside, hastening towards the gangplank.

Even on alert as he'd been, the rush of Presence caught him by surprise. His step faltered for an instant, then his hand was on his sword. He freed the blade from its sheath and turned, gaze sweeping the deck of the barge, then the quay behind him. Nothing moved.

"Show yourself!" MacLeod turned in a circle again, more slowly; this time a gust of wind brought the faint scent of smoke rising from the stove inside. He lowered his guard a fraction and strode to the top of the ramp, still on alert, though something else had tightened for a moment like a fist in his chest. Breathing deep as if the wind might bring him warning of danger, not just wood smoke and the scents of the river, he went forward; he had no name for the unsteady feeling that spread through him, not heat in his belly, or heaviness, exactly, but a slow, sinking feeling that was somewhere in between.

A wave of warm air washed over him when he opened the door at the foot of the stairs, blade guarding his neck. When no immediate threat materialized, he stepped inside, eyes taking in the warm glow of firelight, the lamp in the corner on low, the room otherwise in shadow. "Honey, I'm home..."

A sleek, dark head appeared over the back of the couch. "Well, look who decided to join the party," said a familiar, sleepy voice. "I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by elves."

He blinked. Then started to smile in spite of himself, tension flowing out of him in a wave. If he felt anything like disappointment, he refused to name it, and it faded quickly. "Amanda." He threw the lock and came closer, the smile widening as he got a good look at her. Red cashmere, a long, wrapped sweater that clung to her curves and hinted at nothing underneath. Her hair was mussed as if she'd fallen asleep curled on the couch waiting for him. She returned the smile, posing provocatively with a sinuous movement of her long, long legs.

"Aren't you going to open your present?"

The katana was already set aside, forgotten, and he came towards her, shedding his coat as he went.

She was warm from the fire, her arms welcoming, her hair soft against his palm. "You give good presents," he said huskily, after he'd kissed her thoroughly.

"I've been very good this year," she purred, pulling him down onto the couch. "What about you?"

"Very, very bad," he admitted, but a ragged sigh escaped him as he buried his face against her soft neck, and for a moment he only rested there, closing his eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Duncan," she murmured, and held him close.

* * *

Around mid-morning, the wind quieted and snow began to fall at last, a soft, glistening cloak of white laying itself gently over the city. Up and down the street outside the hotel, children began to appear on the sidewalk, laughing in delight at the last-minute Christmas gift nature had brought them, running and playing in the white flurries. Methos looked up from his book to watch them, sipping his tea and letting the leather-bound volume rest in his lap, forgotten. Memory stirred, their unvarnished delight reminding him of something, though he couldn't quite complete the connection; it felt like a pleasant memory, though, so he sat and watched them and let his mind wander back along ancient and convoluted pathways for a while, waiting for it to surface in its own time.

The past had been too much with him these last weeks -- no surprise there. It was a dark sea, memory an unpredictable riptide running always beneath the smooth surface of the present. Most days, he was a pretty good swimmer, but you never could tell what might wash up with the tide to remind you of the vast deep stretching away beneath you. He shook his head wryly at the metaphor, breathing in fragrant steam and warming his hands around his mug. Kronos would have liked the image of himself as shark a little too much. _There are the conquerors and there are the conquered, _he'd said, no room in his worldview for a brother who had learned to see things differently. _The weapons of today are different, but it all comes down to the same thing._

Outside, the blond boy and girl in the matching red and blue quilted coats had given up trying to make the soft snow hold together into snowballs and were trying to shove handfulls of the stuff down each other's collars, squealing and laughing as they alternated attack and retreat. The boy was younger and clumsier, but his determined efforts were winning out thanks to his sister's inability to effectively construct countermeasures while giggling.

_It doesn't have a name, and it doesn't have a cure._

The familiar, cold feeling settled in his belly and limbs. They'd destroyed the virus before they'd left that place, he and MacLeod, but sometimes the fear came again like that, a knot of dread and the whispered _what if...?_ What if they'd failed to set the blaze properly, and it hadn't burned hot enough to really kill the thing? What if Kronos had stashed more of the virus somewhere, set some kind of dead-man switch? It was the kind of thing he would have done, if he could ever have conceived of his own death. What about his failed experiments, the predecessors of that nasty super-bug he'd been cooking away in labs gods knew where?

That was a dark and circular path right around the bend if you let yourself think about it too much. It didn't help to know that it was a dread Mac had probably wrestled with himself in the last few weeks. MacLeod hadn't lived the nightmare as it was happening, not like he had -- but close enough. Methos knew him well enough to imagine how he would have felt about the thought of millions of people dying because he had failed to prevent it. Each week that passed without news of disaster eased the worry a bit, but the lingering dread couldn't have improved MacLeod's feelings towards him.

_And what if Mac had been a little slower, a little less the fighter you prayed he was? What then?_

Below his window, the blond boy must have managed to score a direct hit on his sister's vulnerable neck -- her outraged shriek pealed out, followed by more laughter, and the memory came, vivid and bittersweet. The rows of lights had arched over the street like the arches of cathedrals, and the snow had caked the streetlamps and sidewalks in the light of early evening. They'd been stopping at all the shop windows, looking at everything and buying nothing, holding hands like a couple of kids. Florentines had rushed past them with armfuls of packages, some smiling indulgently in that way people smile at two young people obviously in love. Then Alexa had caught sight of a shop selling hand-painted porcelain boxes made to look like carousels and bread trucks and miniature sweet confections, exclaiming over their detail and insisting that Methos admire each one.

A light, cold rain had started to fall a little after that, beading on her hair, he remembered, and he'd hurried her back to the hotel to warm her up. There, her sense of wonder had shone more brightly still for him, for his helpless love for her, for his hands on her skin. She'd still been strong then, and had laughed her throaty laugh at him for worrying about a little rain.

The tea mug was cold in his hands by the time he realized there was wet heat on his face, that his throat had tightened to a fierce ache. It came to him with a shock that it had been only a year -- just a year, and Alexa felt as distant to him now as Kronos had a year ago, a memory lost to time, the man who had loved her just as distant, a self he could barely recognize.

Riptide was the right word for it. Shaken, he wiped his face and got up, setting cold tea and book aside and going into the bathroom to splash water on his face.

When he'd composed himself, Methos came back to the sitting room. He paced around the room for a minute, then sat back down by the window. The snow was really coming down now, the steady curtain of white a little hypnotic; the kids had gone inside, the city's usual noise seeming muffled and distant. He picked up his book again, but couldn't seem to focus on the words, his thoughts unsettled, the ache less sharp but still resting heavily within him.

Most days, he was not a man who needed other people around him. Most days, he could tell himself that he was better off on his own, that he'd never been cut out for the Boy Scouts in any case, nothing new there. Most days, he was a strong swimmer -- world class, in fact.

This was not one of those days, as it turned out. After a while, he got up and left the hotel, coat wrapped tightly around him against the heavily falling snow. He buried his hands deep in his pockets as he walked, and if the urge to find a telephone, to dial a particular number and hear a particular voice was too-present in his thoughts, the walking and the cold made a good defense.  



	3. 1997

> Duncan,
> 
> I wish you could see the cathedral tonight. It snowed another four centimeters on Tuesday, and everything is sparkling. Notre Dame looks like a sugar castle from here. I can't help thinking it would look even more beautiful from the deck of the barge, with the tents, and the music, all lit up for the midnight mass. I can't help wondering if there's snow where you are, and if you're alone tonight, or with someone who's looking out for you, someone who can help you find a measure of peace.
> 
> There are so many things I wish I could say to you now. So many things I should have told you. It's hard to believe that in all my years, I haven't learned that lesson, that I can still make the mistake of thinking there will be time enough to say all that needs to be said. I don't know any more if I did the right thing, letting you go. I thought so at the time. I thought you were beyond any help I could offer, that you had gone to a place where I couldn't follow. I thought we all needed time, and that we were both safer apart.
> 
> I can't tell you how hard it was, believing that I'd been wrong about you from the start. I never meant to put so much faith in you, but I did it anyway, didn't I? And when you turned out to be just a guy, like me, I turned my back on you as if I didn't owe you a thing. As if I wasn't just as much to blame for what happened to Ryan. As if you didn't deserve my help any more, my faith. You'd think that if a man lived long enough, he'd eventually learn to forget about pride and blame and pay attention to what matters, wouldn't you?
> 
> Joe misses you, you know. He won't give up looking, even though I've told him more times than I can count that you'll be found when you're ready, and not before. He hasn't lost hope, not yet, probably not soon, but I can tell it's wearing on him, the not knowing.
> 
> On me, too, my friend. I keep telling myself that you will have gone to ground somewhere, that I'd know it if anything happened to you, that somehow, we'd hear about it. I know you're strong -- stronger even than you know -- and I have faith that you will get past this, one way or another. I only wish that I could be the friend to you I should have been seven months ago. Perhaps fortune will favor us, and I'll get another chance one day.
> 
> For now, I think I have to get out of Paris for a while. It's too easy to play the waiting game here. I keep catching myself watching the door, if you know what I mean. Hard to get on with life when every Immortal's buzz is a question mark, and I can't seem to let them pass without knowing. I'm sure you'll be amused to know that I've gotten myself into a few scrapes that way.
> 
> In any case, I think the time has come to see about a little mental and spiritual rejuvenation of my own, someplace that isn't here. But I hope that wherever you are, you know that you can come home, that the last page hasn't yet been written for us. I'll try and remember it if you will.
> 
> Safe journeying, my friend.

  


Methos smoothed the letter with his fingertips, reading over it once. He wondered whether he could have found the courage to say these things if there were a real chance that Duncan would read them. The truths it held might have given him greater pause had he known where to send it.  
He folded the paper neatly, then sealed it in a plain envelope. Lifting his rucksack from the now-bare shelf by the door, he left the flat for the last time.

A fresh dusting of snow had fallen as he'd sat by the window writing, and it glistened now on cars, on lamp posts and railings and windowsills where lights glowed; within, Parisian families gathered for supper before heading out for parties, or caroling, or midnight mass at neighborhood churches.

As Methos walked, he tucked the letter into a side pocket of the rucksack with a handful of similarly unadorned envelopes and zipped it up. Maybe he would give them to Duncan one day, when things were different. Maybe there would come a time when they could talk to one another, when they were both whole, and sane, and able to be friends again. Striding into the glittering night, the delicate layer of new snow crunching softly under his feet, anything seemed possible.

* * *

In the South Pacific, far from any likelihood of snow, the man who had been Duncan MacLeod made his way along a green, wet path, mud squishing gently over the edges of his sandals. The sun had only just topped the rise to the east, and already the humidity sheened his skin, promising another warm, steamy day, much like those that had gone before. It would have been easy enough to forget the date -- except that he didn't want to forget. Richie had loved Christmas, and he wanted to remember that.

The first few months in this place, he had found it difficult to confine himself to the monastery grounds, the relentless torment of his own thoughts sometimes too much to bear. Unable to maintain the inner quiet necessary to find relief in meditation or kata, he'd spent hours at a stretch hiking along these trails and up into the hills where the air was cooler. Sometimes he ran until he was close to collapse, the pounding of blood in his ears a welcome relief. Exhaustion had sometimes won him a few hours of sleep, and he'd been grateful for the oblivion.

Inevitably, of course, time worked its will upon the human heart. The patience of the monks, the anonymity of this place, had worn him down, and he'd found that even from this hideous, enormous crime, this intolerable grief, he could run only so long. Inevitably, he had begun to heal, though he knew he was a long way from healed, that he might never be whole. He thought that maybe he hadn't been for a long time, and that Methos had done the world no favors when he'd refused the sword and turned his back that night. Still, there was one thing that he had begun to be certain of, these last weeks: he was not insane. Ahriman was real. What might become of Duncan MacLeod when he had at last confronted and defeated the demon, he didn't know, or care; for now, the certainty of the fight was enough.

He rounded a bend in the trail and froze, barely in time to avoid the trap that awaited him. Only the slant of the morning sun had saved him. Keeping still, he studied his adversary with interest.

The spider, arrogant and fearless, hung some six inches in front of his face, spinning steadily with its long, black legs. The body was long, too, torpedo-shaped and golden with black markings, a perfect killing machine -- all reflex and lethal grace.

Not so long ago, he might have found the creature mildly repulsive if he had noticed it at all. Today he stood studying its precise, dexterous movements while the sun rose in the blue tropical sky; though his heart was heavy with grief and memory this day of all days, he felt as though his thoughts were clear for the first time in a very long time.  



	4. 1998

_December 24, 1998_

The day had dawned cold and clear after several days of bitter wind off the river, and MacLeod took advantage of the change to start working on the rubber seal around the main cabin's windows. The task was mind-numbingly dull, but had to be done. The old seal had begun to dry out, letting drafts find their way into the barge's interior, and he knew he'd be glad of the effort come January.

Whether he'd still be in Paris after that was another story. He felt like he owed it to Joe to stick around a little longer, and while he hadn't put a time limit on that in his mind, he thought it would be a month or two, at least. Maybe when things were a little more sure between Joe and his daughter, he'd told himself. Maybe in the spring -- he'd have to see.

A lot of things would be simpler if he left France. He'd only recently begun to realize how entrenched his life here had become, how many connections he'd formed over the last two decades. It was getting a little more difficult to shrug off the curious looks of old friends and acquaintances, a little harder to explain away his eternally youthful face with that old standby, "good genes." He ran into people he knew at the market, at the theater, in coffee shops halfway across Paris -- they seemed to be everywhere. It was time to move on.

The curious looks weren't the real reason, of course. He needed to make a clean break from the life he'd had here, and that meant more than leaving behind his mortal friends, it meant putting some space between himself and those he'd let get too close: friends like Joe, and Amanda. O'Rourke had shown him that much. For their health and his own sanity, it was for the best. It would make things simpler, too; he'd understood about Amanda's friend the ex-cop, and stayed away, but it rankled a little, her living a mile from the barge and asking him to keep his distance.

She was right, of course. It didn't change the way they cared for each other, and he understood that. She was better off distancing herself, and he couldn't blame her -- most days, he was glad she'd had the sense to realize it. Still, it was one more reason why it was a good idea for him to go.

He put the bleak thoughts firmly out of his mind and concentrated on the task at hand. He'd already made up his mind to stay a little longer for Joe's sake, and it did no good to dwell on the matter when it wasn't yet time. If he thought about it too much, the old wanderlust would take over and the walls would start to close in. He knew himself, knew it was better to stick to one day at a time, putting one foot in front of the other.

Today, that meant replacing rubber seals. He worked at it steadily, with meditative focus, and by midmorning he was about finished; he was working the last strip into place when Immortal presence welled over him and a familiar voice called his name from the quay.

A little surprised to see him, Duncan hesitated for a moment before beckoning to the other man to join him. "Come on up. I'm almost finished." He saw Methos start up the gangplank with his long stride and turned back to concentrate on the job at hand.

"You know, they have people you can call who will do these things for you," Methos told him as he came forward along the deck. Duncan recognized the old tone, the one that meant Methos was laughing at him. They hadn't seen each other since the night Methos had played cavalry for him with O'Rourke, but apparently some things never changed.

"Is that right?" he said without looking up. "Thank goodness you told me -- my social calendar is so packed, I haven't got a moment to spare."

Methos chuckled at that. "Yeah, I can see why, too, the glamorous life you lead."

"Did you come here for something in particular, or just to harass me while I work?"

"Isn't that a good enough reason?" Methos laughed outright at the look MacLeod shot him, then clapped his hands once and rubbed them together, plainly in good spirits. His cheeks were pink and he looked ridiculously young. "I'm here to shanghai you, MacLeod. At point of a sword, if necessary, but you're coming with me. And we're already late, so let's get a move on, okay?"

"Late?" Duncan frowned at him, feeling as though he'd missed something. "Late for what?"

"To find a tree, of course," Methos said as if it were obvious. "Can't have Christmas without a tree -- I saw it on television. Don't you have any respect for tradition?"

Duncan remembered only then that tomorrow was Christmas. He'd lost track of the days -- he did that a lot these days. That didn't explain why Methos had shown up on his doorstep to shanghai him into buying a Christmas tree, and he found himself blinking as though he'd dozed off, and missed several important events of the morning. "I do, as a matter of fact, but I wasn't aware you did."

"Only the good ones," Methos said, still grinning. "Christmas trees, presents of course, especially if they're for me, a Christmas feast with lots of foie gras and oysters and those chocolate cream yule log thingies that make you sick to look at them, and midnight mass at Our Lady of Paris. I'm telling you, we'd better get a move on if we want to get everything done." He waited expectantly, and Duncan realized he meant what he said -- he really expected Duncan to go find a Christmas tree with him. In Paris. On Christmas Eve.

"You are kidding, right?" he said at last.

"Nope. Not kidding. Go on, go get changed, I'll wait." Methos turned and made his way aft again, obviously expecting him to do as he was told.

Duncan stared after him for long seconds before realizing that the look on his face had to be transparently dumbfounded. He quickly wiped the expression away before Methos reached the gangplank and turned back.

"Come on, MacLeod, let's get this show on the road!"

The man was serious, and was not taking no for an answer. Duncan had already made the tactical error of saying too much, as much as admitting he had no plans, and no easy excuses were coming to mind. Methos' expression was undimmed, cheerful and mischievous, irresistible.

One day at a time, Duncan reminded himself. One foot in front of the other. The thought translated to action and, not for the first time, he found it was easier to give in to Methos' mercurial but formidable will than it was to argue.

* * *

As any sane person would have known, finding a decent tree in Paris on the day before Christmas proved a near-impossible undertaking. The tradition had begun in medieval France, and in the last hundred years the French had embraced it wholeheartedly; however, Parisians also tended to leave the city for the holiday, and the streets were quiet, the tree sellers having distributed their wares and closed up shop days before. Methos, however, refused to be daunted, dragging his reluctant companion from what felt like one end of the city to the other. Duncan's attempts to provide the voice of reason fell on deaf ears.

He supposed he might have simply left the man to his madness, but after a while his youthful energy proved contagious, and Duncan warmed to the hunt. "I'm not buying you presents, though," he warned, as they hurried past another Christmas market.

"I still get lunch, though, right?" Methos stopped too fast, and Duncan almost ran straight into him. "Oh, look at these." His eyes were bright as he surveyed an artisan's booth arrayed with colorful glass ornaments. "Those would look great, don't you think?"

"On what?" Duncan pointed out.

"Ah. Right. Tree first."

"Lunch first," Duncan countered, realizing he was starving, and Methos concurred.

They ate at a café Methos knew, foie gras, a lemony salad with olives and asparagus, creamy goat cheese and bread with herbed butter, all accompanied by a delicious and fruity wine that the owner of the café wouldn't let them pay for. Afterwards there was coffee, and Duncan let Methos talk him into a piece of one of those rich chocolate things, the first bite of which almost sent him into insulin shock after almost two years without refined sugar. He let Methos have the rest, content to watch his comical expressions of appreciation.

"You ready to hit the trail again?" Methos asked when they were sated for the moment.

"I've got a better idea. What do you say we go down to the Eiffel Tower and see the lights, and then we'll walk up the Champs-Elysees and look at all the trees in the shop windows?"

A wide smile made Methos' eyes crinkle. "I knew there was a reason I put up with you."

* * *

As ideas went, he'd had worse. The afternoon proved clear and sunny, white clouds skidding across a blue sky, the city relaxing into a blissful calm in anticipation of a night of family, feasting and reflection. The Tower was beautiful, the park dressed in sparkling lights, and the exercise kept them warm as they made their way back along the Avenue, admiring the festive decorations and elaborately bedecked trees in the shops along the way. Before lunch, Methos had kept up a steady stream of commentary about everything they'd seen, his quick mind as quirky and interesting and unpredictable as Duncan remembered, and still as effective at lifting his mood as it had been in their good days. Now, the quiet of the city seemed to be rubbing off on them, and as the afternoon wore on they lapsed more often into companionable silence, matching leisurely stride with familiar ease, as though the last three years fell away for a time, forgotten.

Duncan was surprised when he realized the sun had long since gone down. He hadn't realized they'd been walking for so long. At his suggestion, they ducked into a traverne to warm up, making a late supper of pate sandwiches and beer while Methos entertained him with a detailed history of the highly competitive science of brewing the perfect Trappist ale.

"I can see this is a subject close to your heart," Duncan teased, when Methos reached the end of his history lesson.

"Wars have been fought over less." Methos popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth. Duncan watched him finish off his beer with expert efficiency. It was a form of vicarious enjoyment to watch Methos eat, he decided. He'd forgotten the way the man applied himself with unselfconscious gusto to the smallest pleasures of day-to-day life, without shame or embarrassment when it came to milking the last drop of contentment out of a meal, a fine brandy, a nap, a sunny afternoon. The graceful facility of those long fingers was unselfconscious, too, but it captured the gaze at odd moments, sometimes a subtle and startling reminder of the way Methos could handle a blade when he wanted to, power hidden in those deceptively smooth hands. Perhaps it wasn't only food Methos responded to with such wholehearted enjoyment, Duncan thought idly, then felt his face heat as the thought registered.

Methos raised a questioning eyebrow. "What?"

_I've missed you,_ was on his lips, and Duncan felt himself color further. He dropped his gaze and busied his hands with his empty glass. His face felt hot, and his throat ached. What was wrong with him? "Just wondering what's next on the agenda," he managed, struggling to avert the betraying rush of sentimental foolishness before he ruined a perfectly good afternoon.

He felt Methos' cool, curious gaze. "Why, you in a hurry?" There was something careful about the way he said it, a tone that Duncan recognized only now, after it had been absent for most of the day. His own equally absent sense of caution resurfaced in a rush of awareness, reminding him of their long history and why he could little afford to get sentimental about anything where Methos was concerned. Quickly, he mustered the hint of a smile and forced himself to relax.

"No hurry. Just wanted to know if I should get us another round."

"By all means," Methos said, but after Duncan had signaled to the barkeep, a little silence fell between them and Duncan could feel the other man's eyes on him for a heartbeat that stretched into two, then three. "You okay?"

The easy intimacy of the question squeezed something in him painfully. "Sure," he lied easily. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, you looked like you remembered you left the stove on."

Duncan laughed in spite of himself, and it helped. "I think I'm not used to taking the day off," he admitted. "I feel like there's something I should be doing."

Methos canted a look at him that managed to communicate derisive disapproval and fond amusement at the same time. "You should work on that, you know."

"And you're the man to teach me?"

A grin surfaced. "Bright boy." The words were between them like a glint of steel, then, and Duncan stilled for an instant; the same stillness drove the warmth out of Methos' expression for a moment, a flicker of dismay registering in its place, unmistakable. Those words had been a bladed edge between them more than once, but plainly Methos had let them slip without thinking, a habit of speech rather than any veiled intent.

"Something else we need to work on?" Duncan said after an awkward pause.

Methos' answering smile was rueful, and more than a little relieved. "Apparently so."

"I'd like that," Duncan said quickly, his pulse skipping a little at his own daring. He made himself meet the other man's eyes straight on with an effort of will, and the look on Methos' face was worth it.

Their beers arrived before the moment could become any more awkward. They both seized the distraction, but Duncan felt absurdly glad that, for once, he'd said the right thing. Peace offerings were uncharacteristic for them, maybe especially for him, but they'd let too many hurts pass unacknowledged as it was. Before today, he would have said one more couldn't make a difference. But Methos had taken a risk in seeking him out today in spite of all that lay between them, and he found himself unwilling to let that risk go unanswered.

"You've been in Paris a long time, haven't you?" he heard himself say. He felt a little breathless, as though he'd rounded a corner to find himself gazing down a long precipice into dark and uncertain waters.

"Probably too long," Methos admitted, though Duncan wasn't convinced by his unconcerned shrug.

"Ten years already when you met me, wasn't it?" he persisted.

At that, Methos gave him a curious, measuring look. "Twelve, actually, but who's counting?"

"I suppose it's a little easier if you keep a low profile," Duncan allowed.

"Most things are." Methos' eyes were dark and clear, his gaze steady. "Something you're trying to tell me, Mac?"

Duncan took a sip of the sweet, mellow ale, making a study of the wet rings on the bar. "It was a mistake for me to stay. I should have moved on in the spring, after I'd done what I came here to do. You can't hold on to things. I should know that."

"That's true," said Methos, "but you can't push things, either. Can't force yourself to be ready. Everything in its own time."

Duncan met that deep, clear gaze again, and it was easier this time, a little less like free-fall. "I've missed you," he said simply, not sentiment now but unvarnished truth. "It's time for me to go, and I don't want it to be goodbye for us. I want us to be able to do this again sometime, and not have to wait for me to get myself into a fix I can't get out of so you can come save my sorry ass."

He'd stepped off the edge. Strangely, it didn't feel like falling, though that unsteady pit-of-the-stomach feeling was the same. Methos regarded him levelly, his expression unreadable; after a long moment he got up and walked a few yards down to the end of the bar. There, he reached into a cup near the register and retrieved a pen, then took a cocktail napkin from a stack nearby and came back to his seat. He wrote something on the napkin with deft, purposeful strokes, then handed it to Duncan.

"That's the number and address of a solicitor in London. You can always reach me through that office, if you need to. The number below it will get you a voice mailbox, or it will forward you to another number. That one should be active for a few years, at least."

Duncan took the square of paper, folded it, and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans. His hands seemed suddenly clumsy, too large, the simple task requiring more concentration than it should have.

The door opened, letting in a laughing group of young men and a breath of cold that raised gooseflesh on his bare neck. Brit college students, by the look and sound of them, on holiday and making the most of it. They took up noisy residence at the corner table, dragging up extra chairs and calling for a round of Guinness. Duncan cast a wry look at Methos, then canted a questioning eyebrow towards the door. Methos answered the look with a nod, drained his glass, and got up; he'd paid for supper already, so Duncan left a few bills on the bar. Together they donned their coats and made for the door.

The temperature differential between the warm pub and the crisp night was enough to make Duncan wish he'd thought to grab a pair of gloves. He huffed on his fingers to warm them and rubbed his hands together, then hurried to catch up with Methos, who had already started off down the street.

"Where to now?" Duncan asked, falling into stride beside him.

Hazel eyes glinted sidelong at him, approving. "You're very accommodating tonight."

"Well, it's not like you've given me much choice."

"Noticed that, did you?" But Methos offered no further enlightenment, merely lengthening his stride; content to humor him for the time being, Duncan matched his pace. Their breath frosted before them and they kept close for warmth as they walked, their shoulders brushing every few steps. Methos wound a course steadily back towards the river, though he seemed to make turns on a whim more than once, taking them down the streets that sparkled most brightly with garlands of lights. Soon Duncan was warm enough to appreciate them, a feeling not unlike the sparkle of lights spreading within him. He didn't dare name it, nor even acknowledge it, but the fragile, buoyant feeling wouldn't leave him.

At last the cathedral rose up before them, brilliant and beautiful under her floodlights, a huge tent and festive crowd spread out at her feet. In a few minutes they had crossed the Petit Pont and found themselves amid the throng.

They had stepped into wonderland. Actors in medieval costume must have numbered in the hundreds, for the whole square seemed to have taken a giant step backwards across the centuries. Duncan had seen a few of them about in the previous weeks, but the effect of so many of them actively playing their roles made the mind reel -- the Immortal mind, especially, as the inevitable wave of memories rose in response. Medieval France was not his place, his time, but the associations were strong enough to assault the senses. His eyes sought Methos a few paces ahead, but if the other man felt the surreal pull of memory, he didn't seem to be bothered by it.

Duncan pushed his way forward, closing the distance between them; as if sensing him there, Methos turned and flashed him a grin that was no part five thousand years and wholly little-boy delight. "Great party, don't you think?"

Duncan was still knocked a little off his stride, not used to crowds much these days, never mind this dreamlike, chaotic hybrid of history and Christmas fantasy. A group of singers was caroling in front of the cathedral, both music and dress circa 15th century Paris, and the two Immortals had to lean close to be heard. "It's different!" he said over the noise of the crowd.

"You okay with this?" Methos asked, perceiving his discomfort. His breath was warm against Duncan's cheek. Duncan made himself relax a little and nodded, gesturing for Methos to lead the way.

Inside the tent, a quiet hush won out over the merry crowd in the plaza. Scented candles enveloped them in a soothing aromatic wave as soon as they stepped inside. They were drawn with the rest of the visitors to the peaceful tableau of the creche, the silken robes of the mages glinting richly in the candlelight, the meter-high figures arrested in their moment of holy peace, beckoning travelers mortal and Immortal to share that peace and perhaps take away something of its majesty. For long moments Duncan stood near the figure of Mary and breathed deeply, grateful for the respite after the noise and confusion outside.

Then he noticed a large, transparent box standing to one side. It had been a long time since he had visited any church at Christmas, and longer still since he had taken Tessa to see the nativity at Notre Dame -- he had forgotten the box and its traditional purpose, to collect messages of peace from those who visited the creche. He and Tess had brought messages of their own once, one snowy Christmas Eve. She had been very young, then. His own naiveté couldn't be forgiven by youth. How many people had he killed since that day? How many more deaths lay on his conscience? Brian. Sean. Ingrid. Richie. _Oh, Tess._

His sword felt heavy and cold in its hidden sheath, and after a few moments he left the tent, not waiting for Methos.

Outside, he made his way quickly away from the crowd, bearing towards the garden behind the cathedral. It was quiet there. He found a bench and sat down, resting his elbows on his thighs and closing his eyes for a while, shutting out the world until he could breathe again, until the chill wind off the river touched his neck with cold fingers, and he was aware of his surroundings again, once more sure of time and place.

When he opened his eyes, Methos was sitting beside him, leaning forward, his long pale hands clasped between his knees. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice quiet in the shadows. "I didn't know it was going to be such a madhouse. They must have come over from the Palais Royal -- they've been having some kind of street theater over there all month."

"It's all right." Duncan's own voice sounded like he'd been shouting, and he had to clear his throat. "I shouldn't have gone in there."

When he faltered, Methos nodded. "Yeah, I know how that feels." He was quiet for a minute, his solid presence both a welcome reassurance and a bittersweet ache in Duncan's gut, too long missed and soon to be missed again. "Sneaks up on you, doesn't it?" Methos said at last. "Especially when you've been out of circulation a while. It's like you lose the knack of hanging on to the present if you don't live in it enough, and the past comes up and sucks you down when you least expect it."

"That's one way of putting it," Duncan said ruefully.

They lapsed into silence again for a moment, then Duncan felt the light pressure of Methos' shoulder against his, an almost imperceptible touch that warmed him from the inside out. "You still feeling accommodating, or have I worn out my welcome?"

"Depends. What'd you have in mind?"

"Oh, no, I'm afraid you'll have to trust me. In for a penny, in for a pound. Your call."

Duncan pretended to consider it. "I'm in, as long as it doesn't involve either one of us dressing up in a red suit, and you'll swear to me that Immortals can't die from freezing their asses off."

"As for the first one, in your dreams, and as for the second, I suppose anything's possible, but I promise it'll be warmer where we're going."

Methos rose, and Duncan followed suit. "In that case, lead on."

* * *

Darius' little church wasn't far from Notre Dame, but it might have been another world, its familiar arches and columns gilded by flickering candlelight, only the priest and a few parishioners in quiet prayer to share the space with them. A place out of time, it had always seemed to Duncan, as it seemed now, his old friend's presence like a voice out of hearing. He wondered if it felt like that to Methos, too -- if he ever passed through the wooden doors half-expecting to find himself in another century, to step into the rectory and find Darius there waiting at the chess board. And if he did, what century would it have been, and what name might Darius have called him by? Once, this place had been the meeting of two great Roman roads. Darius had told him that. Had Methos known that place, that crossroads, a thousand years before any church had stood here -- a thousand years and more before Duncan himself had been born? The possibilities dropped away into an abyss if he followed those lines of thinking, but for some reason, in Darius' church, it was hard to keep himself from thinking in centuries instead of years.

Beside him, Methos seemed lost in his own thoughts, more pensive than was usual for him. He'd once spoken of Darius in the tone of one who'd known him, but Duncan had never worked up the nerve to ask him about it. He'd never worked up the nerve for a lot of things where Methos was concerned.

_And I'm not about to start now,_ he thought wryly. The past was hazardous territory for any Immortal -- he'd proven that himself already today. Never mind an Immortal with as much past as Methos lugged around. Today they'd broken every record on the books in their difficult history, and he wasn't about to screw it up, no matter how curious he was. No matter how much he ached to turn back the clock and make different choices at every turn in the road.

Methos stirred, returning to the present from whatever memory had claimed him. He caught Duncan's glance and seemed to shake off the temporary melancholy. "You ready?"

It was nearly midnight. They said little on the short walk back to the quay, the silence a companionable one; if Duncan caught himself checking to make sure the folded napkin was still in his pocket, he didn't think Methos noticed. From the cathedral, the faint strains of the choir rose over the water.

The sight of the barge rocking at her moorings made him feel the cold again, and he suppressed a shiver as they turned downriver towards Methos' car. His steps felt curiously heavy. Only this morning, he'd wished himself free of obligations and responsibility, free to move on to another city, another life far away from here, away from the friendships that caused him as much pain and dread as joy. Now, he found himself thinking of reasons to stay.

They reached the car, and he stopped, feeling awkward; he wanted to ask Methos to stay a little longer, have a drink with him, but the fear of ruining things, spoiling the gift Methos had given him, stilled the words in his throat. Methos turned, eyes shadowed and unreadable, and Duncan tried instead for words to thank him.

He got as far as Methos' name. Methos stepped towards him, not reaching for keys or for the car door as Duncan had expected, but for him, gloved hands slipping into his coat as he invaded Duncan's space with a subtle, irresistible move that ended with the cold steel of the car door against Duncan's back and the warm, forceful pressure of Methos' body against the length of his front, one thigh pressing gently between his and the silky-hot, insistent assault of Methos' mouth against his own. It went on for a long, dizzying instant, taking breath and thought, making him tremble to his knees. When at last it ended, he drew breath like a dying man.

The kiss -- if kiss was what you could call it, though it felt more like Methos had reached straight down to every pleasure center in his body and licked them awake -- left him open and wanting and almost reeling with fear under Methos' surprisingly gentle, expectant regard.

"Your call," Methos said, breath crystallizing in the chill night. "No harm, no foul." And he held himself still, waiting, though his body was an inescapable press of strength against Duncan's, a merciless demand when his steady gaze only asked, and offered. His call? A hum of response rose in Duncan's throat and he fumbled for the lapels of Methos' coat, gripping them fiercely to hold him still, hold him close for the fervent answer of his mouth against Methos', his tongue, the urgent hunger of his kiss.

Methos kissed him back with equal passion, and when Duncan felt him grow hard, his own arousal flooded him in a rush, his body flushing with heat and new yearnings. "Wait--" he gasped, breaking free of that wicked mouth with effort. Kissing him felt like breaking all the rules of the world at once, tasted like forbidden fruit, and his nerves sang with the desire to know more secrets about him, to lie together with him and feel the heat of his naked skin. He drew a steadying breath and fought to calm the racing of his heart.

Methos looked no better off. Flushed, mouth reddened, his eyes shone bright in the moonlight, and the insistent pressure of his arousal against Duncan's hip was unmistakable. Duncan knew he must be out of his mind if he thought this was something he could actually do, something that wouldn't end up being the worst mistake of his life. Hadn't he made enough mistakes with Methos to last a lifetime already? But his longing ached in him, more powerful than reason, or any memory of desire.

"Your call," Methos said again, his voice husky with desire of his own.

_In for a penny, in for a pound, _Duncan thought, and drew a breath with sudden certainty.

"Come inside," he said, his own voice sounding rough. It had been decades since he had lain with another man, but at the moment that seemed insignificant. He gripped Methos' coat and the heat between them glowed like embers.

Methos said nothing, but all the muscles of his face relaxed, and his eyes smiled. He found one of Duncan's hands and took it in his own gloved one, leading the way.

* * *

Methos disappeared into the head for a minute while Duncan lit the fire he'd laid in the stove that morning. In a few moments it began to crackle and flicker, making the shadows dance and taking the edge off the chill in the room. Still Methos wasn't back, so Duncan got up, dusting his hands on his jeans, then cast about for what he should do now. His heart skipped unevenly, missing one beat out of five, and his chest felt tight, his limbs trembling faintly as if he'd run a long distance without respite.

His eyes lit on the bar. Something to drink. Drinks would be a good idea, he thought with some relief. He found two glasses and poured whisky into them, downing half of one without thinking about it, then leaned a hand on the galley and forced himself to take a deep breath, get a grip. This was going to be a disaster if he couldn't get hold of himself. He didn't even know how they were going to manage taking off their clothes together without laughing, never mind the rest.

Then Methos came out of the bathroom, naked to the waist, and no part of Duncan felt like laughing. Christ, they were really going to do this.

Methos drew near, spotting the second tumbler of whisky. "That for me?" The firelight gilded his bare form as he retrieved it, and when he raised the glass to his lips, Duncan saw that his nipples had drawn taut from the chill. That calmed him, for some reason -- made Methos more human, more vulnerable. It also made Duncan want to warm him up.

Before his apprehension could make him think better of the impulse, he moved. The skin at Methos' waist was cool against his palm, and invitingly silky; Methos stilled at his touch, then relaxed and let him do as he wished, watching him with amused eyes. Crisp, delicate hairs met his touch when he dragged the caress upward over Methos' flat belly, then traced the line of his breast with his fingertips.

"Your hands are warm," Methos rumbled in approval, letting Duncan feel the shiver of his response. Duncan traced slow patterns on the smooth planes and hollows of Methos' belly and chest until gooseflesh followed his touch and Methos' arousal stood plainly outlined against the soft denim of his jeans. And then he could feel the beating of Methos' heart, strong and steady against his palm; he stopped there, head bent, arrested by the sight of his brown, square hand resting against pale skin.

"It's all right," Methos murmured at last. He took Duncan's glass and set it aside, then closed his hand over the one that lay at his breast. "Duncan." His voice was rough.

"I meant what I said," Duncan warned him, his own voice stern and hard, grating like iron against stone. The words hurt him, though he couldn't have said where the wound lay. He held himself stiffly against the warm grip of Methos' hand, the sweet promise of his body.

"I know."

"No one else, Methos. Not because of me."

"I know, Mac," Methos said again, calm as river rock worn smooth by time.

Duncan came into his arms, then, and the relief of letting himself yield, of giving himself at last to that unexpected haven, felt like the laying aside of some great weight. At last the terrible fear eased a little and he could seek Methos' throat with his lips, could fit their bodies together as he had longed to for what felt like forever. His hands found the hollow of Methos' spine, and he breathed warmth against the pulse at the other man's throat, caressing him there with his mouth, the tip of his tongue. "Duncan," Methos breathed again, and this time it was a plea.

If he had let himself imagine what it would be like, the two of them aroused and naked and entwined in his bed, it could not have been anything like the reality. He could not have conceived that there would be such bittersweet tenderness in the way Methos' body would fit against his, the way Methos' hands would shape his shoulders, his waist, his hips and flanks and every part of him they could reach, as if they could not get enough of touching him. Nor could he have imagined the way those supple hands kept returning to his face, fingertips gently tracing the contours of his brow, his jawline, the curve of his throat, guiding his mouth to Methos' again and again as they kindled the heat between them to a fierce blaze.

Too soon, he was panting with it, his cock painfully hard where it nestled against Methos' hip. Slickness streaked their bellies and thighs as their legs entangled and they rocked together more closely, urging each other on with soft moans into one another's mouths. The fleeting thought came to Duncan that this chance might be all they would have, that there was more they might do together, more he might give, but the thought fled away in the face of his body's eagerness and the almost unbearable jolts of pleasure that streaked through him with each ragged stroke of Methos' sex against his own.

Then Methos' fingers laced in his and by unspoken agreement they fought it together, hips thrusting more slowly, more gently as they tried desperately to forestall the inevitable. When at last they were both slippery and shaking, their hearts pounding together with imminent release, Methos rolled on top of him and straddled his hips. He encircled them both in his warm, callused hand and bowed his head against Duncan's chest, then shuddered and began to thrust against him; Duncan braced them both, one hand gripping the back of Methos' neck, the other flung out, seizing the headboard, giving himself to the rough friction of Methos' grasp.

Methos came with a choked cry, shaking under Duncan's hand, and Duncan, too, shuddered hard as his own climax took him, the sound Methos made and the hot spill of his seed wrenching a ragged sob from his own throat. Release flooded him, a powerful wave that seemed without end. He held Methos tight to him and they rode it out.

* * *

"Stay," he said, what felt like a long while later. They'd sacrificed the t-shirt Duncan had been wearing for the sake of necessary cleanup, and now Methos rested against him in a warm cocoon he'd made for them, the comforter wrapped closely around them both from either side. Duncan had been drawing gentle, rhythmic strokes up and down his back for some time. "A little while, at least," he amended, when Methos didn't immediately answer.

At that, Methos turned over and propped his head on his hand, considering him in the moonlight. Duncan liked the look of sleepy satisfaction on those familiar, angular features very much. Methos traced a lazy caress along Duncan's collarbone, and his sphynx-smile played about his lips.

"You know why I came looking for you today?" he asked at last.

Duncan raised himself on his elbow, mirroring his posture. "Why did you?"

Methos' eyes lifted to his and crinkled, sharing the joke. "I'd decided it was time I left Paris for a while, and I wanted to see you one last time."

Duncan held that mercurial gaze, wanting to remember this moment for a long, long time. At last he felt his own lips curving upward in spite of himself. "Good plan."

Methos' smile widened in answer. "It was, wasn't it?"

"One of your best." Duncan leaned forward the little distance it took to turn his face into the warm curve of the other man's neck. He nuzzled there, his hand coming up to rest against Methos' hip under the blankets. "And what's the plan now?" he asked, feeling the subtle quickening of Methos' breath, the unspoken acquiescence in the shifting of his body and the slight arching of his throat.

"There's still at least twenty-two hours of Christmas left," said Methos, his hand coming up behind Duncan's head to draw him closer. "I'm holding out for presents."

Duncan let himself be drawn, his hand slipping down between Methos' thighs. "A little while, then?" he asked, feeling Methos respond to his touch.

Methos answered with his body, which Duncan took for agreement, and they said nothing more for some time.

* * *

Much later, when the fire had burned down to ash and the moon had set, Duncan woke and reached out, not knowing what for until his hand found Methos' in the dark.

Methos stirred, woken from his own deep sleep at Duncan's touch. "What is it?" he asked groggily. When Duncan didn't answer and no immediate danger presented itself, he roused himself enough to reach out and pull Duncan to him, making a place for him to rest his head on Methos' shoulder. The barge was very dark, only the faintest outlines of objects visible in the faint light from the portholes; Methos' smooth skin pressed warm against his cheek, his scent strong and heady. "Duncan?"

"Maybe we could--" Duncan started to say. But as soon as the words were past his lips, he stopped, an ache closing his throat.

Methos sighed, and stroked his hair softly in the dark. "It's been a hard road for you these last few years," he said at last. "One battle after another, and hardly a chance to rest. Then, just when you thought you had it together, our good pal O'Rourke came along and threw you for a loop. Now you've got some things to figure out. So do I." His touch was soothing, lessening the sting. Duncan knew he was right. That didn't mean he couldn't wish otherwise.

He closed his eyes, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Methos' chest. "Tell your solicitor not to change his number, will you?"

"Space enough and time, my friend," Methos told him gently, and kissed his brow.


	5. 2003

_December 24, 2003_

Methos stood before the British Airways terminal screen, leveling his most dire expression at it in the vain hope that doing so might convince it to offer him some better news. The last flight out of Kennedy bound for Heathrow on Christmas Eve was a risk, of course, and he'd known that, but the promise of a quiet, half-empty flight had been too much to resist. Unfortunately, all his considerable will and intimidation techniques failed to convince the digital readout to change its tune from DELAYED to ON TIME.

Resigned, he felt about his coat pockets for the book he'd brought, then found a corner chair and folded himself into it, settling in to wait. The book was a literary novel written by someone he'd known at Oxford, and something he'd been meaning to read for a while now. He'd got as far as the author's foreword when a woman's voice announced the flight delay over the terminal speakers, giving an estimated departure time just after midnight -- a delay of an hour, give or take. Could be worse.

Twenty minutes later, he was forced to admit that the book was failing to capture his interest, and regretted that he hadn't brought another one. He thought he'd seen a small news stand still open on the way in. Maybe he could find something to occupy him there. A good travel book might be entertaining, especially if he could find one for someplace he hadn't visited in a few centuries -- it was always fun to try and spot places he knew under the "Historical Attractions" section, and read about which bits had survived intact. The idea seemed marginally worth getting up for, so he tossed the book on the chair beside him, got to his feet, hoisted his duffel once more and wandered off down the concourse.

The news stand was still open, though no travel books were to be had; he surveyed the meager collection of bestsellers and the more robust array of newspapers and magazines for something that would distract him for the next couple of hours. His eye fell upon a cluster of fashion rags, and he recognized the name that featured prominently on most of them. Of course, if he really wanted to make an evening of it, he could always cheer himself up with the latest copies of _Elle_ and _Moda_ and _Vogue,_ plastered as they were with photos of the Faith show. Yes, that would be the perfect capper on the last month of his life.

Only she was Kate, now, according to Duncan. Would she have to pay for a new marketing campaign? he wondered uncharitably, and then felt annoyed with himself for the self-indulgent scorn. He understood well enough why Duncan couldn't keep away from the woman. She'd laid a guilt trip of legendary proportions on him for almost three hundred years before finally deciding it might not be beneath her to consider some small measure of forgiveness -- no wonder he'd fallen for it. She pushed all his buttons, in spades, and the best part was, she didn't even have to try. Her self-absorption was so complete, she honestly believed she was doing him some kind of favor, holding out her forgiveness like a bone to a starving dog.

But that line of thought would get him exactly nowhere, and well he knew it. Duncan had even as much as admitted that her self-destructive hatred had long ago crossed any line of proportion that made sense, but as it had been with Kristin, with Ingrid, with Cassandra, his own guilt and over-developed sense of responsibility made him overlook a multitude of sins. Methos knew it wouldn't last. Even Duncan knew it, but being the man that he was, he couldn't seem to stop himself from trying anyway.

Uninspired by the choice of reading material, sick of his own company, Methos settled for a copy of the _Independent_ and left the shop. A glance at his watch told him it was 11:22 p.m.; the monitor now gave flight 182's departure time as 12:45. He thought about going back to the gate, flipping through the paper he'd bought, but he really had no interest in anything within its pages. He turned the opposite direction and started walking, wishing he could shut off the tired chatter of his brain. It wasn't as though he was covering any new ground. His thoughts had traveled these convoluted pathways for a fortnight, and their turnings held no surprises any more.

He'd really thought Mac might come to him, though, after he'd buried his kinsman. More than half expected it, if he were honest, or why else would he still be in New York? That little bit of self-delusion was two weeks old and still stung more than he cared to admit.

Everything in its own time, he'd said to Duncan once, and if he'd entertained private hopes that maybe this time things would be different for them, he had no one to blame but himself. As sure as he'd been about the eventual outcome of Kell's campaign against Connor MacLeod, as convinced of the elder MacLeod's sincere death wish, he'd never really believed Connor would fall to Duncan's sword. In spite of all that they'd been through, some part of him had persisted in his faith that fate could not deal such a cruel blow a second time, not when Duncan had fought so hard to come back to the world of the living. He ought to have known better. Kate's sudden change of heart was one last little jab from a universe with a sick sense of humor.

He came to the end of the south concourse, but his steps had brought him no closer to the easy acceptance he wished for. When had he let himself get so tangled up in MacLeod's life again, anyway? The last five years had been quiet, uneventful -- everything he'd told himself he needed. The same had been true for Duncan, if one could judge from the sound of his voice the couple of times he'd called, and if either of them had wished for more, they were both men who knew the value of anticipation, and timing.

It was seeing him that had done it, of course, Methos thought ruefully, letting his feet carry him back the way he'd come. Those dark eyes, and that little furrow that always appeared between them when he was worrying about someone, which was most of the time. The deep rumble of his voice, that somehow didn't quite translate through an overseas connection. The gentle roughness of his warrior's hands, and the straight line of his shoulders, same as it had been when they'd first met. Maybe Kate had felt the same way, seeing him -- maybe it had been easier for her to forgive in the face of the living reality. She wouldn't have been the first. She wouldn't be the last, either, but that was cold comfort.

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Methos cast a plague on all such thoughts and lengthened his stride towards the departure lounge. He was far too old for the lonely hearts club, and had been for some time. Enough was enough.

It was then, as he rounded a bend in the corridor, that the universe's sick sense of humor came into play. The buzz hit him without warning, stopping him in his tracks and welling over him, a powerful wall of sensation that made the hair stand up on his arms and neck. He reached for his sword and encountered only the lining of his coat; of course, he was unarmed.

As his opponent would be; some consolation there. He scanned the gate area and took inventory of potential exits, calculating where the densest population of warm bodies might be found at this hour, and how quickly he could get there. He was on the point of making for the escalators when his eyes met a familiar gaze, brown eyes, a little line between dark brows.

He was sitting in the same chair Methos had vacated earlier. For a long moment, neither of them moved, and their eyes held across the intervening distance. Methos still wasn't quite used to the raw power he could feel now in the other man's Presence; he'd known Duncan's buzz for so long that it was disconcerting to feel the change in his aura, the dramatic alteration of something else he'd taken for granted. Equally disconcerting was the sudden stab of guilt he felt, as though he had anything to feel guilty for. If he hadn't said goodbye it wasn't the first time, for either of them, and he was damned if he'd feel sorry for it. Bad enough that MacLeod had gone and dug up his conscience eight years ago and left him to live with it. The conditioned guilt response was adding insult to injury.

At last Duncan raised his brows and made a little gesture towards the seat facing him. Drawing a deep breath and forcing himself to relax, Methos crossed the concourse to where he waited. "Come here often?" he said, sitting down across from him.

"That line's almost as old as you are," Duncan chastised.

Methos shrugged. "So, I'm entitled. Sue me."

They fell into silence, all the fragile, tangled threads of their shared history tangible between them. Methos couldn't be sure what his own expression revealed, but Mac looked tired, and a little sad. He still carried his grief heavily, and it showed in his drawn face, the uncharacteristic paleness of his skin and that second, faint line that sometimes appeared beneath one eye in times of stress or exhaustion. They'd met for drinks a few nights before, and he'd seemed all right, but Methos thought that he hadn't slept much since. Either that, or the overhead lights of the terminal were less kind than the mood lighting in the hotel bar had been.

"Joe tell you where to find me?" he asked at last.

Duncan shook his head. "Your hotel. They said you took a shuttle to the airport, and I guessed."

Methos' eyebrows lifted. "Good guess."

"Maybe you're more predictable than you like to think."

Methos smiled, refusing to take the bait. "Maybe I am."

"Or maybe I know you better than you think I do."

"You keep telling yourself that," Methos said, but there was a roughness in his voice, and he thought he wasn't the only one who heard it. Duncan leaned forward, elbows resting on knees; only two feet of space separated them. Methos shifted in his seat and briefly glanced down at his hands, not able to match the other man's calm.

"Relax," Duncan said. "I understand why you didn't say goodbye."

"It was a last minute thing," Methos said quickly, then cursed himself for sounding defensive.

"Methos, you don't owe me anything. I said I understand."

Something flared behind Methos' breastbone, a little spark of anger at the implication that there was anything to understand. Then, just as quickly, the spark died away. Of course they owed each other. Of course he knew that. He hadn't said goodbye because some small part of him had meanly hoped it would hurt when Duncan found out he'd gone. "So why'd you come?" he asked.

"Mostly, to say thank you."

Methos looked away. They'd been here before, he thought. He didn't want Duncan's thanks, any more than he ever had. He kept his voice level. "What for?"

"You know what for," Duncan said, and that made Methos turn back to meet his earnest gaze. "For helping me, and for getting my sword back, but mostly for doing what I asked you to. For taking me seriously when I told you and Joe to stay out of it, and for making sure he listened." At Methos' expression, the lines of his face altered. "So, I was right about that."

Methos said nothing, but Duncan nodded as if he had. Then he smiled, sitting back in his chair. "I didn't think you had it in you, Methos."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Trusting me to get my own ass out of the fire, for once. Letting me handle Kell on my own, without sticking your nose in. I'm impressed."

"Wasn't easy," Methos admitted.

"Yeah, I'll bet." The dark eyes shone with his approval, and Methos thought that something had eased in him, some shadow of fear his friend had borne for a long time. That fear was for him, he realized with a jolt. It always had been. Not just for Amanda, and Joe, and innocent lives, but for him.

He felt his own mouth quirk, a sudden lightness bubbling up within him. He was learning. After all this time, maybe they both were -- Duncan looked like he felt it, too. "Think maybe it's possible to teach a couple of old dogs new tricks after all?"

"I think it just might be."

The speakers came on overhead, the female voice announcing that his plane was at the gate, and that the flight crew would be ready to begin boarding in approximately twenty minutes. The jetway doors opened and a steady flood of passengers began deboarding from the arriving flight. Thankfully, the distraction and noise saved them from the embarrassment of grinning at each other like a couple of fools for too long.

When the flood had died down to a trickle and the gate area was quiet again, a thought occurred to Methos.

"Hey, how'd you get past the security checkpoint, anyway?"

Duncan looked up at that. A curious calm seemed to settle over him. "Wondered if you'd think of that," he said. Before Methos could ask what he meant, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper, unfolding it with one hand and holding it up. Methos recognized the British Airways logo on it. Flight 182, JFK to Heathrow.

"Round trip?" he heard himself ask. His heart was beating hard against his chest.

"Your call," said Duncan, and his smile felt like a gift.

  
_The End_


End file.
